


will you catch me (if i should fall)

by Bean_reads_fanfic



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Hurt/Comfort, Hypnotism, Mental Health Stuff, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, and here we go again i told u this wasnt abandoned yall, btw endgame doesnt exist in my house OBVIOUSLY, non-consensual committing of crimes, post-a4, speculation for Jake Gyllenhaal's Mysterio
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2019-05-26
Packaged: 2019-07-12 10:21:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15993209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bean_reads_fanfic/pseuds/Bean_reads_fanfic
Summary: A hypnotist called Mysterio visits Peter's school... it all goes downhill from there.





	1. it's coming for you, running at ya

**Author's Note:**

> NEW FIC YAY

****_Sleepwalking. It feels like he’s sleepwalking all the time. Completely underwater._

_Peter used to love swimming at the beach with his aunt and uncle and he continued to like to swim when that tradition faded. However, his enjoyment of water was tampered slightly by the Vulture dropping him into a lake, as well as that time he dangled over a whirlpool trying to keep two halves of a Ferry together. These images are vague memories in the back of his head warning him to be wary of the water._

_But when the invisible waves lap at his consciousness and his first instinct is to raise his head and fight the current, he finds he can’t. He could’ve, once; but the water’s under his skin now. It’s cold and numbing so that he can’t feel what he’s doing, can’t hear the muffled sounds outside him._

_There’s just one voice he listens to, now: the one that whispers in his mind. It’s telling him to sink deeper and deeper…_

_So he does. He slips beneath the surface and he drowns._

 

...

 

Midtown School of Science and Technology seems to want to go all-out for Prom this year.

Maybe it’s because a generous anonymous donor has been fattening the school budget for about a year now (ever since a certain kid began interning for a certain billionaire); or, maybe it’s because the teachers and staff want to help in any way they can to distract from the fact that half the universe died and was brought back to life recently.

Yeah, that happened.

The mental/emotional repercussions of half of everyone’s friends and family disappearing all at once was something that no institution had enough school psychologists for; nevermind the fact that the dead half then reappeared with a good dose of trauma of their own. On top of it all, curriculum and graduation requirements had to be massively altered to accommodate the half that missed a few months. It’s been a nightmare to say the least. Hence, when an opportunity for relief came in the form of Prom week, parents and teachers came together to pull off something their poor kids could really enjoy. Laughter is the best medicine, and all that.

Balloons and banners and streamers and more decorate the halls of the school starting on Monday morning the week before the dance. Every day is some kind of spirit day: Pajama Day, Twin Day, Halloween-in-May Day, Polka-Dot Day, and finally, School Colors Day. The dance itself is Saturday night and it’s not exclusive to juniors and seniors; all students are invited to come. There’s going to be music by a famous New Yorkan DJ and catering from a local dessert bakery, as well as a photo booth and a raffle for prizes. Finally, as an incentive mediating the school week and the night of the party, everyone’s last period class on Friday afternoon has been cancelled and replaced with an assembly with a professional magician. It’s hard to believe someone as no-nonsense as Principal Morita has given approval for all of it, but when asked about it he simply shrugged and said, “If this isn’t the best week of my students’ lives, then I’ve failed them.”

All-out.

Peter himself isn’t sure what to make of it all. He remembers once telling Ned, “I’m so far beyond high school right now.” With the experiences he’s had now, he’s even further. A thousand miles further, a thousand _light-years_ further. Beyond high school, beyond college, beyond life itself.

Because way out there in space, on an isolated wasteland of a planet, he died.

He died crying, and then a moment later he was back and nothing was the same.

Still, if there’s one thing you could count on Peter Parker to do, it was survive. He carries on through this tragedy like he has through the others and he laughs and smiles and helps out where he can even if his heart is a bit more weathered than before. His energy is contagious, the other Avengers had loved being around him in the weeks after the Fix, and he’s been a much-needed pillar of support for his strong-but-not- _that_ -strong Aunt. If his smile is sometimes physically painful to maintain, if he can’t seem to find interest in Legos or Star Wars like he used to, if he sometimes (often) wakes up gasping and crying at night-- well, that’s not a big deal.

So yeah, this all-out school party thing attempting to bring normalcy back to their lives? Peter is admittedly not as excited as he would’ve been pre-Snap, but he’s willing to try. Ned is excited, MJ is… present (it’s hard to read her, but if she’s there then she must not hate it). For everyone else’s sake, he’s willing to play along.

And he doesn’t pay any mind to it when the magician scheduled for Friday afternoon is suddenly unable to attend and replaced with some unknown new guy, a hypnotist called Quentin Beck. Why should he?

 

…

 

“Isn’t the name ‘The Great Mysterio’ a bit much?” Cindy asks skeptically as they’re filing into their row of seats.

“It’s because he’s very _mysterious_ ,” Abe responds, wiggling his fingers at her.

“There’s nothing mysterious about a hoax,” Flash scoffs. “Hypnosis is a bust. Everyone on stage is just _acting_.”

Abe shrugs. “Guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

A few seats down the line, Peter hears the exchange clearly (along with many other bits and pieces of conversation near and far in the room, so much auditory information vying for his attention- he tunes it out as best he can) and presses his lips together thoughtfully. He pokes his best friend.

“Hey, what do you think? Is this stuff real?”

Ned’s eyes are wide and bright beneath the brim of yet another ‘cool’ hat. “I don’t know, man,” he says excitedly. “But why not? I mean, aliens and wizards are real now, so.”

“What a time to be alive,” MJ mutters sarcastically into the pages of a thick-bound book in the row behind them.

It’s then that the lights in the auditorium dim and the din of chatter quiets down. All eyes turn up as Principal Morita takes the stage to introduce their guest. He begins with a few words about how proud he is of the student body, how they really deserve this fun treat, and despite himself Peter loses interest and turns to scrolling through his phone. He has a hard time keeping focused, these days.

His head jerks back up when the audience begins clapping, and on stage now is a tall man in a business suit and a long purple cape draped around his shoulders is taking the stage. He looks like he’s in his late 30s, with a thick brown beard and a facetious grin on his face.

“Good afternoon, boys and girls of Midtown Tech!” the man begins, his voice swooping and dramatic. “I am the Great Mysterio, magician and hypnotist extraordinaire! It’s my pleasure to be here to get to know all of you…”

His eyes rake the crowd and for some reason, Peter’s spider-sense sends a shiver down his spine when that gaze passes over him. He frowns, tapping his foot nervously.

“You will notice,” Mysterio goes on, sweeping a hand out to the stage, “that I have room up here for a few volunteers. But first, how about we begin with a little game, is that okay? I know you’re all _so_ very smart, so this shouldn’t be too hard. Would everyone please clasp your hands together in front of you like so?”

Everyone imitates his demonstration, pressing their hands together in front of them. Peter cautiously follows suit.

“Now press them tighter,” the man instructs, his voice becoming rapid and commanding, like a chant. “Tighter, tighter, tighter, so tight! Your fingers are welding together, becoming inseparable, you couldn’t pull them apart if you tried! There’s super glue on the palms of your hands, that’s how stuck they are.” A dramatic pause. “Now try to pull them apart.”

Peter pulls his hands apart easily, looking at them like there’s some punchline he’s missing. Sure, he could’ve made them stick if he’d _wanted_ to, but that’s not magic, that’s just having setules on your fingers because a spider bite altered your DNA.

Around him there are gasps and cries of surprise as people stare at their intertwined hands in awe. Beside him, Ned’s eyes are like saucers and his mouth is agape.

“Dude, I can’t move my hands!” he gasps. His fists shake a bit as he tries.

“I don’t get it. Is everybody stupid?” MJ says, which is a more blunt version of what Peter himself is thinking. He looks around and sees a mix- some people are as nonplussed as he is, and others appear to have caught the verbal handcuff.

On stage, Mysterio smiles broadly. “If you can’t move your hands, can you please stand? I need ten volunteers from among you to come up and take these seats.”

Ned ends up going up, as well as Cindy and James and a few others who Peter doesn’t know. Flash remains stubbornly in his seat, despite the fact that he’s still pulling at his hands like a kid caught in a Chinese finger trap.

“Now, I know many of you have suspicions about what it is I do… You’re science-minded, after all. Little skeptics.” Mysterio begins once they’re all settled in quiet again with the volunteers now onstage. He chuckles to himself. “Well, I hope that what you’re about to see challenges the way you think.”

He approaches the boy on the left end of the line and places a hand on his shoulder from behind. “Young man, what might your name be?”

The boy looks up at him with wide eyes. “Harrison.”

Mysterio places his other hand on Cindy’s shoulder, who is seated to Harrison’s left. “And you?”

“I’m Cindy.”

“Harrison, Cindy, do you two know each other?”

They both offer noncommittal shrugs, nodding a bit.

“Alright, well, you’re about to know each other better than you thought you would,” Mysterio says. The crowd hums, intrigued. He picks up Harrison’s left arm and raises it a bit. “Harrison, I just need you to do me a favor. Don’t let Cindy fall. Got it?”

Harrison nods, looking confused. The man turns to Cindy.

“Cindy, are you hypnotized right now?” he asks.

“Uh, I don’t think so.”

“Are you sure?” 

“Yeah.”

“Well, let’s see. _Sleep_ ,” Mysterio snaps his finger in front of her face and instantly Cindy’s head rolls forward, her body slumping to the side. Harrison’s arm comes down to catch her as she goes boneless on his shoulder, a look of shock on his face. There’s an uproar of excited chatter all around as kids leap to their feet and strain to see better. Peter frowns, focusing his hearing as hard as he can to tune in to just one sound: Cindy’s heartbeat. It is, in fact, slowed in sleep.

“Very good, Harrison, now can you just do me one favor?” Mysterio places his hands on Harrison’s shoulders from behind again and directs his gaze up to the ceiling. “You see those lights up there? How’s about you look straight up at those lights and just pick one spot and stare at it… now hold that spot for about ten seconds, don’t look away… aaaand _sleep_!”

He snaps by the kid’s ear and just like Cindy, Harrison’s eyes shut and his head falls forward. Mysterio holds him up by the shoulders and continues to repeat, “ _Deep_ sleep, deep, deep, sleep...” as he props the boy up and against Cindy so their bodies make a lean-to.

Meanwhile, the student body starts to point and chatter even louder. The excitement in the room grows as the magician continues down the line doing the same until all ten kids are all passed out on against each other like fallen dominoes. Ned even relaxes so far as to fall right out of his chair and sprawl across the floor, causing peals of laughter to ring around the room. There’s a commotion down the row when, along with those on stage and in spite of his earlier remarks, Flash falls forward in hypno-sleep as well.

On the contrary, Peter feels more wide awake than when they came in here. His feet now tap against the floor, his fingers drumming his knees, all wound-up for no reason. Maybe the crowd is getting to him.

“Alright, those on stage,” Mysterio booms, swirling his cape. “When I count to five, you are all going to awake, but ladies, when wake up, you’re going to find that the fellow on your right smells more amazing than anything you’ve ever smelled in your _life_. One, two, three, four, five!”

At once, everyone on stage-- and Flash-- come back to themselves like machines being turned on. They blink around like they’re not sure what happened and Ned climbs back into his chair. Sure enough, though, every girl in the line is suddenly sniffing the air and turning to the boy next to them with wide-eyed fascination. Cindy stuffs her nose into Harrison’s shoulder and inhales. “You smell so _good_ ,” she croons.

“What is going on?” Abe laughs from beside Peter. Peter shrugs.

The hour goes on like that. Mysterio stands in front of his volunteers and throws his arms out yelling, “Sleep!” and every time he does, they go floppy. He suggests in Sally’s ear that she’s a world-famous French physicist about to give a lecture, and when he snaps her awake she gets up and struts across the stage gesturing widely and speaking nonsense in a loud French accent. He suggests to Ned that his hat is on fire and the boy jumps to his feet and throws the thing off his head, stomping it down frantically. He suggests to James that he can’t remember where his mouth is, then offers him a water bottle and watches him pour water against his forehead, his cheeks and his chin in growing frustration. Finally he puts them all back to sleep and undoes previous suggestions, only to suggest that when they hear the world hypnotism, they will shout, “It’s fake!” When he wakes them back up, they all do just that, even as they look confused as their own outbursts.

“Please, a big round of applause for these wonderful volunteers!” Mysterio calls at last, dismissing them all to go back to their seats. Applause rings out as they dazedly make their way back.

Peter scoots over to let Ned sit back down, whispering, “Dude, are you okay?" 

Ned looks dazed, but he nods. “That was _so_ _weird_. It’s like, I _knew_ what was going on, but I just _didn’t_ _care_ , you know?” He blows out a breath and reaches for his backpack, unzipping it and pulling out a bag of candy. “I definitely need some food after that.”

Peter nods, looking across the room at the clock. Just a few minutes til he can get the heck out of here. 

“Now, for the finale!” Mysterio grins. “I need one more volunteer, and not just _any_ volunteer. I need someone who thinks they’re completely immune to this hocus-pocus; someone who pulled their hands apart easily when we started and has been wondering how the heck much money I gave these kids to bribe them into acting silly up here. Any takers?”

The room falls dead silent.

“Nobody? Come on, my feelings won’t be hurt,” the man presses, pacing slowly at the edge of the stage like a focused predator, his eyes scanning the crowd. Once again, his gaze finds Peter. This time, their eyes meet and a grin curls up the man’s face and he slowly raises his pointer finger in his direction. “How about _you_.”

Everybody turns to see who he’s addressing, and Peter’s anxiety cranks up a notch at the attention. Reluctantly, he stands.

“There’s a good sport!” the man cheers, and leads them all in a round of applause on Peter’s behalf as he makes his way to the stage. “What’s your name, young man?”

“Peter,” Peter says, trying to ignore how his senses buzz up and down his arms the closer he gets to the man. _He’s just a performer, there’s no danger here,_ he insists in his mind.

“ _Peter_ ,” Mysterio repeats, relishing the word. He looks the boy over, his ice-blue eyes intense and searching. Peter squirms, folding his arms and looking away. The man smirks and heads to the side of the stage, pulling a hidden prop from behind the curtains there-- what looks like a giant fish bowl.

“Now this may seem a bit strange,” the man admits, holding the opaque glass ball up, “But just go with me here, alright my young friends?” With that, he brings the bowl down over his head, completely obscuring his features.

Peter raises an eyebrow. It’s no weirder than anything else he’s done in the last hour, he supposes.

“Okay, Peter,” the man begins authoritatively, his voice sounding amplified and echoey in the dome on his head. “Peter, I need you to just look straight ahead and try to relax.” He stands behind the teen and curls his hands over his shoulders. Contrary to the instruction, Peter tenses uncomfortably at the touch. 

“Just relax…” the man croons in a deep, lulling voice. “Relax, relax, loose and limp...”

There’s a light hissing noise behind him, like a gas being let out of compression. Peter barely has time to wonder where it’s coming from when suddenly, it feels like water is filling his head from the inside. His shoulders droop involuntarily, his fists unclench. A numbness spreads through his fingers and toes, his limbs, and finally his mind. His vision goes blurry and all he sees is the haze of lights overhead. 

He feels oddly apathetic about it.

“Good boy, you’re doing very good,” a voice whispers at his ear. “Now, _sleep_.”

Peter’s chin drops against his chest. 

The crowd, now used to this trick, doesn’t gasp but merely watches with growing curiosity. Even MJ’s looking up from her book, seeming mildly concerned.

“Peter, when I count to five, you’re going to wake up, and when you wake up, you cannot tell a lie. Everything that comes from your mouth is unfiltered truth. One, two, three, four, _five_.” 

Peter’s eyes flutter open. They’re disturbingly blank.

“Alright, does anybody have any questions for him?” Mysterio asks, looking around mischievously. “Come on, it’s like truth or dare but he’s only got truth to give.” When nobody immediately volunteers, the man taps his chin in contemplation and says into the microphone, “Oh, I’ve got one. Peter, when was the last time you talked to yourself in the mirror?”

The boy wobbles. “This morning,” he answers, voice monotone.

“And what were you talking to yourself about?”

“I was practicing my Thor impression.”

Low laughter rumbles through the crowd. People sit up straighter, beginning to realize the meaning of Peter’s state.

“Are you a big fan of Thor?” 

“Well, yeah.”

“We’ve got a fanboy up here, don’t we,” the man chuckles. “Peter, if you had to make out with any Disney character, who would it be?”

Stifled giggles as everyone goes silent to hear his answer. “Ariel.”

“Dude, no,” Abe groans loudly, shoving his face in his hands and causing a loud ripple of laughter.

“I’ve got a question for him!” Flash yells out over the noise. 

“Please, ask away, sir,” Mysterio invites with a flourish of his hand.

“Parker, of the girls in this room, who would rather you kiss, marry and kill?” Hoots of delight from girls and dramatic ‘ooohs’ from the guys follow the question.

Peter blinks slowly, as though thinking the question through. “Kiss Betty, marry Michelle, kill Miss Warren.” 

The answer brings the loudest response yet. Betty blanches and her friends pretend to gag around her and Ms. Warren, leaned up against the wall by the back door, throws her hands up in mock-exasperation. Her colleagues look at her and shake with laughter. Ned spins around to look at MJ so fast that his neck pops. The usually-stoic girl has a light pink tint to her cheeks and she looks mortified.

The hypnotist tilts his head back and laughs, waving his hands for attention. “Alright, I’m almost out of time, my friends, but let’s give him one more question, shall we? Peter... tell us something nobody knows about you. What is your biggest secret?”  
  
The auditorium goes silent, everyone’s attention on Peter as he sways at the microphone, eyes half-lidded and staring off at nothing. A second passes but then the boy’s lips part and he whispers,  
  
“I’m Spider-Man.”  
  
At the back of the room, Ned chokes on a gummy worm. MJ slaps a hand against her forehead.  
  
The silence in the wake of the confession is broken by a call of hysterical laughter from Flash. “Penis thinks he’s spider-man? Penis _Parker_?!” He guffaws, bending over to hold his stomach as he laughs. “That’s-that’s rich!”

Soon the laughter is taken up by others and the confession is written off by students and staff alike as the nonsense of a sleeping mind. At the back of the room, two knowing teens sigh in relief.

Up front where Mysterio stands by Peter’s shoulder, however, a smile twists up the man’s mouth behind the glass ball on his head.  
  
“Found you,” he sing-songs by the boy’s unhearing ear.


	2. dreaming with your eyes wide open

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dude,” Peter interrupts, raising his hand to cover Ned’s mouth mid-ramble. He meets his eyes with as much earnestness as he can muster. “Dude, I think I’m losing it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been trying to post this for DAYS and i dont know why the FLIP my AO3 is so cursed, but i finally got it to work 
> 
> sidenote: it's no longer a 3 shot because i underestimate my ability to get out of control  
> sidenote sidenote: all the titles in this are from Greatest Showman [because Mysterio is the showman >:)]

Tony whistles long and low into the receiver. “Yikes, kid.”

“My life is over,” Peter moans, putting his phone on speaker so he can shove his face further into his pillow. “I can’t show my face in public again.”

“You  _really_ said in front of everyone that you wanted to marry Michelle? Isn’t that the scary girl who leads your decathlon team? Pete, you’d better start packing now, my friend.” The man’s voice is within the realm of sympathetic, but he also sounds more and more like he’s getting a huge kick out of this.

Peter turns his head and makes a face at the contact name on his screen in annoyance. “Mr. Stark, you’re supposed to be helping me feel better.”

The billionaire audibly clears his throat in composure, but he’s still far too perky for the teen’s taste. “Right, right. My breaking-the-cycle-of-shame skills aren’t as honed as I’d like. Listen, this isn’t so bad! We can fix this.”

“How?!”

A pause. “Uh… well, whenever I mess up big time, I make it up to Pepper with something irresistibly romantic like sending her flowers or making dinner or something.”

“Yeah, I don’t think MJ’s into that stuff…” Peter flops over onto his back and glares at the underside of the top bunk. “And anyways, Mr. Stark, that’s not even- I mean, that’s just  _one_ of my problems! Did you not hear how I told the  _entire_ student body that I’m  _Spider-Man_? I mean, nobody believed it-- which, by the way, ouch-- but still! Now they all think I’m some kind of... delusional weirdo!”

“And you’re not?”

“I am literally about to hang up on this call.”

“Okay, I’m sorry, it’s just-- I’m having a hard time understanding why you let this guy in your head in the first place. Stage hypnotism is some weird psychology, but it can’t make people do things against their will. If you really didn’t want to say those things then theoretically, you shouldn’t have.”

“I know, but I did!” Peter fists a hand in his hair, casting his mind back to that moment in the auditorium when Mysterio had taken hold of his shoulders and everything in him had just… zoned out. Like his consciousness melted away and the subconscious left behind was putty in the guy’s hands. Even weirder, the trick seemed to start for everyone else when they tried the hand-clasping trick but it didn’t come over Peter until that exact moment onstage.

He huffs out a breath, letting his hand fall back to his side. “It’s like how Ned described it: I knew what was happening, I just didn’t care. Like when you’re in a dream, and nothing you do really matters? And then the next thing I know, he’s snapping me out of it and I’ve become an even bigger laughing-stock than I already was...”

Sensing the kid’s very real cloud of self-deprecating gloom, Tony softens his tone. “Peter, let me tell you this as someone whose public reputation is literally a burning garbage fire most of the time: people who don’t know you have no right to judge you _._   _Especially_  you. Maybe some part of you wanted those truths to come out so people would respect you more? I don’t know, but here’s the bottom line: there’s no time like the present to resolve that pesky low self-esteem. Come on, repeat after me: I am a good kid.”

Peter crosses his arms and furrows his brow, but a tiny smile does turn up the corner of his mouth. “Mr. Stark…”

“Say it. Say it, say it sayitsayitsayit--”

“Oh my gosh, chill!”

“Not until you say it!”

“Fine!” Peter squirms onto his side and sits up. He takes a deep breath. “I’m a good kid.”

“Sorry, what was that?”

He rolls his eyes, but says louder, “I’m a good kid!”

“Dang right you are!” Peter can’t help but smile openly now at his mentor’s silliness. “Peter Parker, you are a grade-A cinnamon roll, too good, too pure for this world and you’ve fought and won bigger battles than this. Sooner or later, people are gonna find something new and shiny to gossip about and it won’t even matter. Everything’s gonna be fine, alright?”

“Alright.” Despite himself, Peter does feel a lot better. He stands and starts meandering around his room, picking things up and setting them down aimlessly. “You know, I’m impressed you just quoted a meme to me.”

A scoff. “Don’t underestimate me, kid. I’m preparing to be a dad over here, of course I know my memes.”

“Pepper’s on board, then? Do I get to babysit?”

“Well, not exactly on board, but… we’ve finally got a wedding date pinned down and that’s stunning progress so I’m optimistic. If it works out then the job is yours.”

“Fair enough.”

A pause. From the other room, Peter hears the front door open and the sounds of May coming home from work. He can hear her kick her shoes off and mutter about ordering in for dinner. She calls out to Peter and he puts a hand over the speaker and yells back to let her know he’ll be out in a minute.

“Well, best not keep Aunt Hottie waiting,” Tony sighs. “We still on for this Friday?”

“Definitely.” He may not have the type of internship that people thinks he has, but Peter delights in the occasional opportunities he has to work on suit updates alongside Tony Stark in the genius’ personal lab. It’s a thing they’d started after Homecoming and gotten more frequent at since Thanos’ defeat.

Something had changed between them when… well, when Peter clung to him and died in his arms. Something bad (obviously; new traumas for them both), but also good since he’s been back. Peter’s hero-worship and Tony’s aloofness are still there, but it’s diluted by the actual relationship growing between them. When May or Pepper or another avenger refers to it as a father-son relationship, both Peter and Tony can blush and fumble and deny it all they want but they’re not fooling themselves or anyone else. Case in point: calling one another to vent about personal troubles is no longer an out-of-the-ordinary occurrence. It would have been, once, but it’s not anymore.

“Alright, I’ll see you then,” Tony says in parting, pulling Peter out of his thoughts.

“Wait, Mr. Stark!” Peter says, then bites his lip. Tony is clearly waiting, so he swallows and goes for it. “Thank you.”

He has a good three seconds to stir before Tony answers, sounding gruff but genuine. “No problem, kid. Let me know how it goes. Have a good night and tell Hot May I say hi.”

And with that, the call cuts off.

His bedroom door pushes open a crack and the woman in question peers in, resting her hip against the doorframe. “Hey, hon,” she greets, eyes crinkling in a smile behind her big lenses. “Who were you talking to?”

“Tony,” Peter responds, setting the phone down on his desk and coming to give her a hug. He doesn’t know why he’s able to call the man by his first name to other people, but never to his face. Habit, probably.

“And how’s Tony doing,” May says, squeezing him close and then pulling him back to brush at his bangs. “Not planning any more space field trips, I hope?”

Peter snorts, pushing her hands away from his face good-naturedly. “Not that he told me, but you never know. He’s Tony Stark, after all.”

“Mmm,” May hums, folding her arms. “Well, just let him know that if he takes off with you without my permission again, I’ll castrate him,” she says casually, pushing off the frame and heading to the kitchen. “You want pizza or Thai?”

 

…

 

That’s how Friday night goes: pizza and movies with the best mother figure he could ever ask for. The majority of Saturday is spent in his room doing homework and tinkering with a new haul of dumpster finds because despite what Tony thinks, fixing up old tech is a fun challenge. It’s one of the few things Peter can use to keep both his mind and his hands busy and distract from the gnawing ache in his chest that’s been more of a bother since he turned to dust and back.

Ned messages him around four in the afternoon to double-check their plans and Peter texts back a confirmation and a few good emojis to boot. They’ve both decided they’re not down for Junior Prom-- Sophomore Homecoming was enough excitement for the both of them for  _at least_ until Senior year. That, and they really need to discuss how to do damage control for Peter’s embarrassment at school on Monday.

May’s out with some friends and she gave Peter permission to stay the night at the Leeds’, so at a quarter past five he gathers some clothes and toiletries into his backpack, turns out the lights and locks the door on his way out.

He’s barely rounded the corner of their apartment when his warning sense buzzes at the nape of his neck and he freezes in his tracks.

It’s still fairly light out and the sounds of evening traffic fill the air. He pivots on one foot and surveys the streets and sidewalks, seeing further than any normal human can see, but there’s nothing glaringly out of the ordinary to spot. He frowns.

A person walking a dog weaves around him with a mumbled, “Excuse me,” and Peter backs up against the brick wall of the building and thinks. If there’s some kind of danger here that’s singling him out, he’s got to get somewhere that civilians won’t be in the way. His guess is that someone he can’t see is targeting him for a mugging; if so, they’re in for a surprise.

He hikes his backpack up a bit and heads down the side alley behind the complex. Back here, the sounds of the New York are much more muted and there are no people around to witness a seemingly normal kid take down a criminal. Peter props himself against one wall and crosses his arms, waiting for whoever it is to show themselves so he can web them up and get on with his day.

He’s starting to get impatient when suddenly his senses buzz again and he looks around warily. Again, nothing.

But then, from somewhere nearby there’s a light hissing noise and with it comes an experience he’s had once before.

All at once, his muscles go soft. The numb feeling slides through him like melting butter. His head fills with cotton, his arms fall to his sides. He blinks and he’s slid down to the ground but he can’t feel his body. He can’t feel anything.

A blurry image approaches, their footsteps echoing across the pavement. Someone crouches down in front of him. Peter’s slack face is reflected back at him by the glossy dome on their head.

“ _Sleep_ ,” they say.

He does.

 

…

 

…

 

…

 

Peter’s eyelids blink open.

Above him is the underside of the top bunk of his bed. He rubs his eyes and groans, rolling over to unlock his phone and check the time.

And then he stares.

And stares.

Did Ned set it forward to be funny when he wasn’t looking or something? Because there’s no way it’s Monday morning, when five seconds ago it was Saturday night.

“Peter, you’re gonna be late for school if you’re not up in five!” May calls, rapping on his door and making him jump. He drops his phone to the floor and sits up, pushing his blanket aside and swinging his feet to the floor.

“I’m-I’m up!” he yells back, pressing the heel of one hand into his eye socket and suppressing a yawn. He slides his palm down his face and looks around. There’s morning sunlight streaming through the window, and the clock on his desk confirms the hour on his phone.

After stumbling up and pulling on jeans and a worn flannel, he grabs his backpack and meets May at the kitchen table. She’s got a book propped up against the bowl of fruit and a mug of coffee pressed to her lips but she eyes him and raises an eyebrow as he sits down.

“You look like a mess,” she offers.

“Gee, thanks,” he deadpans, setting his book bag down and grabbing an apple from the bowl.

“A very  _cute_ mess,” she amends, setting her hand over his and squeezing before going back to her book.

He stares at the fruit in his hand, turning it over and observing the way it’s sleek skin reflects their kitchen. “May?” he begins tentatively.

“Hmm.”

“Do you know when I come home yesterday? From Ned’s, I mean.”

She glances up at him over the rims of her glasses judgmentally. “Far later than you said you would, that’s for sure. I knew you boys had things to do, but I didn’t think they’d be 24 hours long.”

He sets the apple down, not feeling that hungry after all. “So like, after 6? And then I went straight to bed?”

May’s forehead creases. “Yes,” she says slowly. “Are you having trouble remembering? Please don’t tell me you guys got into alcohol. You know I’m not okay with that.”

“No, no, nothing like that!” Peter hurries to say, sitting up straighter.  _At least, I don’t_ think  _so_ , he adds to himself. “I just… I can’t believe I slept that long, is all.”

“I can,” May scoffs. “I’ll bet you two didn’t sleep the entire night when you were there.”

Peter nods, an odd queasy feeling growing in the pit of his stomach. He stands and heads out, calling goodbye as he closes the door behind him. The apple stays on the table untouched.

 

…

 

Gone are the decorations of prom week, but the halls still buzz with leftover excitement about the dance itself. Peter doesn’t care about any of it. He follows the habit-worn path to his locker and waits for Ned to show up and greet him like any other day-- the difference to any other day being that… well, he’s got nothing to tell his friend about his weekend because he can’t  _remember_ his weekend. For a good few minutes he just stares at the books in his locker, face folded in concentration and tries to think back. It’s like there’s a mental block he can’t get through. He was in his house on Saturday and then- he did… something…  

“Dude! How’s May doing?” is the first thing Ned says when he finally does greet Peter.

He turns slowly to face his friend, not bothering to hide his confusion. “Uh… she’s fine? Why?”

Ned returns the confused look. “Because she was super sick the other day, right? That’s why you couldn’t come over?” He slips his phone out of his pocket and pulls up his messages app. Peter peers over his shoulder and sees that their chat group is pulled open, and the last few messages are labeled from Saturday night:

 

 ** _4:17PM- Ned:_  ** _Dude, you still good to come over tonight?_

 ** _4:18PM- Peter:_  ** _Yep!! I’ll be over soon (emoji emoji emoji)_

 ** _6:30PM- Ned:_  ** _Peter when were you planning to get here?? we’ve got movie marathoning to do man!_

 ** _6:45PM- Peter:_  ** _Ned, sorry to cancel so late but my aunt came home very ill and I have to stay here to take care of her. I hope we can reschedule to another time._

 ** _6:46PM- Ned:_  ** _Dude, that sucks :/ Hope she feels better!! Yeah ofc, just lmk :)_

 

Peter looks up from the messages slowly. He feels like ice water has been dumped over him.

“I sent that?” he says faintly.

Ned nods. “Dude, you don’t look so good. You didn't catch her germs, did you? Wait, can you even do that? Get sick from normal sicknesses, I mean? Like, you’ve mentioned your metabolism being whack but what exactly did the spider bite do to, like, your immu--”

“Dude,” Peter interrupts, raising his hand to cover Ned’s mouth mid-ramble. He meets his eyes with as much earnestness as he can muster. “Dude, I think I’m losing it.”

“w‘Aat?” Ned asks around his hand, eyes wide.

Of course, of  _course_ , the most unwelcome individual Peter could imagine chooses that moment to intervene. “What up, Penis? How’s the love life going?”

Peter flinches back against his locker as the bully invites himself to stand between himself and Ned. “Not now, Flash,” he groans, digging his nails into his palms. The last thing he needs right now is a rehashing of Friday’s humiliations.

“Wow, rude,” the boy scoffs, slinging his arm over Peter’s shoulder. Peter shrinks in on himself under the touch. “I just wanted to tell you, PDA in the hallway with your boyfriend? I mean, I admire how  _open_ you guys are and everything, but… people might talk, ya know?” He whispers out the last bit with relish.

Wait a second.

“Dude, you’re not funny,” Ned scowls, pushing Flash’s arm away.

Flash holds up his hands in mock surrender. “Hey, I’m just saying-”

“Is this about Friday?” Peter interrupts. The other two turn to look at him.

“Huh?” Ned says.

Flash looks between them, a crap-eating grin spreading across his face. “Oh, boy… what’d you guys do on Friday?”

Peter shakes his head, feeling increasingly like that icy feelings has seeped into his veins. “No, no, I mean-- the thing with the hypnotist? The Mysterio guy?”

A beat. “Peter, what are you talking about?” Ned asks. He looks genuinely concerned now.

“Last period on Friday, this guy came to the school and did a hypnotist show and I…  _you know_ ,” he presses urgently. He looks back and forth between them, but even the humor is sliding off Flash’s face now.

Ned clears his throat. “Peter, the only guy who came on Friday was some lame magician. There was no ‘Mysterio’ person. For reals, are you feeling okay, man?”

“But I- but…” Peter shoves his forehead in his hands. Around them, other kids hurry off to their classes as the warning bell sounds.

“I’ll leave the power couple to sort each other out,” Flash remarks, backing off to join the flow of students. “Just remember, Parker- if you need to have a mental breakdown, feel free; I’m always here to take your spot in Decathlon!” With a peace-sign thrown over his shoulder, the bully is gone.

Ned shuffles from foot to foot, unsure. “Peter?” he tries.

Peter peeks through his fingers at his friend. “I’m definitely losing it,” he mumbles.

 

…

 

“Okay, let me get this straight,” Ned whispers (as quietly as Ned can whisper). “You don’t remember  _anything_ that happened this weekend?”

Peter stares up at the front of the class where the morning announcements are playing, an abysmal look on his face. One elbow is propped heavily on the desktop supporting his forehead. He sighs.

“I mean, I remember up til Saturday night,” he whispers back. “I was getting ready to come over to your house, but… I don’t remember if I left or not…”

“And then you just woke up this morning?”

Peter nods, his throat dry.

Up front on the screen, the announcements are reviewing the highlights of the previous week. There’s shaky footage of kids in various types of spirit-day get-up, clips of interviews with teachers and students, and then it cuts back to the studio where Betty and Jason sit in front of the green screen, reading their ques.

“Because our guest performer requested not to be filmed, we don’t have any footage of Friday’s magic show,” Betty reads with forced enthusiasm. “But it sure was a hit!”

“You could even say he gave us a  _spell_ -ar performance,” Jason adds, eliciting groans in the classroom.

They move on to photos and clips of the dance, but Peter stops listening. He turns to Ned.

“Okay, what exactly happened at this magic show?” he demands.

Ned opens his mouth but then frowns. “Uh… I don’t really remember,” he says. “Just that some guy came and did some cliche magic tricks.”

“What about the hypnotist guy, the one who had people come up and he’d put them to sleep and make them do weird things?” Peter presses. His fingers are cutting into his palms again, hard. “You were one of the volunteers, dude! And then I went up and I said… some stuff. Do you not remember that?”

Ned just looks at him blankly, shaking his head. “Sorry, no. Peter… I’m kinda worried about you, you know? Maybe you should see a doctor...”

Peter huffs in frustration and turns away, hunching over his desk and drumming his fingers on the wooden surface. “Something weird is going on, dude,” he mutters. In truth, it could be a good thing that nobody remembers him saying those embarrassing things onstage, but still… him having a different memory of Friday than everyone else? Having  _no_ memory of Saturday and Sunday?

Something is very, very wrong.

As if confirming this, a tiny spark from his spider-sense makes him look up at the screen once more.

“-that’s all for Prom, folks,” Jason is saying. “On a less fortunate note, Midtown High’s shop lab was broken into and robbed yesterday afternoon. Here’s Mr. Hapgood with more information.”

The camera swings to show Mr. Hapgood in a third chair at the studio table.

“Mr. Hapgood, what can you tell us about what happened here on Sunday?” Betty asks.

“Well, kids, it looks like the culprit was someone who knows the school well,” the elderly man begins, lacing his fingers together. “They knew how to get in without setting off the alarms, but we did get a look at them on the school security feed. Take a look.”

A grainy video appears on-screen, showing the dimly-lit hallway leading to the basement classroom. From the corner of the frame, a lanky figure dressed in all black emerged from the stairwell and makes their way to the door, producing a key and stepping inside. There’s a hood over their head and when they turn to glance over their shoulder, the footage freezes and zooms in on a ski-mask-covered face. Their features are heavily shaded, but two glinting eyes reflect light back at the camera.

An unfamiliar shiver ghosts up Peter’s spine.

“And what exactly was taken?” Jason asks, the image form the video shrinking into the top corner of the screen so that the hosts are visible again.

“That’s the confusing part, Jason,” Mr. Hapgood replies. “The culprit made off with twenty, maybe thirty dollars’ worth of your average tools. Not something worth breaking in for, I’d think. It’s a mystery.”

“If anyone has any information about the break-in, please contact Principal Morita or the Midtown police as soon as possible,” Betty concludes. “Now, that concludes our announcements for today…”

Peter’s hands cry little drops of blood from crescent-shaped fingernail cuts.


	3. forget the cage, we know how to make the key

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He should tell Tony. He should tell Tony. He should tell Tony.
> 
> ...He doesn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello

He should tell Tony. He should tell Tony. He should tell Tony.

...He doesn’t.

It’s not because Tony wouldn’t believe him; the man’s seen wild stuff in ten years of being a superhero so chances are he’d give Peter the benefit of the doubt. It’s not even because Peter’s afraid to voice what’s happening out loud (though he is, and he’s not even sure how he would begin; the look of confusion he can already picture forming on Tony’s face as he tries to explain fills him with frustration and helplessness and other things he doesn’t like to feel in front of his mentor). No, mainly the reason he doesn’t call for help-- even though he’s really freaked out… heck, _especially_ because he’s really freaked out-- is because he’s Peter Parker.

Peter Parker is supposed to be fine.

 

_“No, I'm good, I'm fine! It’s good, I gotta get him back!”_

_“I’m just stressed. The internship, and I’m tired. ‘S a lot of work.”_

_“Let me just say: if aliens wind up implanting eggs in my chest or something and I eat one of you, I'm sorry.”_

 

And besides the couple of slip-ups where he momentarily cracked wide open-

 

_“Hello?! Please, hey- please, I’m down here! I’m down here, I’m stuck! I’m stuck, I can’t move, I can’t--”_

_“Save me, save me-- I don’t wanna go, Mr. Stark, please. I don’t wanna go, I don’t wanna go, I don’t wanna go--”_

 

\--he thinks he’s been holding himself up well.

Because here’s the system: if May is happy, if Tony is happy, if his classmates are happy; Peter is happy too. This is what he tells himself, the way he’s been living his life for awhile now, and doesn’t think deeply about it. This is the role he reminds himself of as he sits there in homeroom after the end morning announcements, and doesn’t process a single thing from class through the clang of alarms in his head. He allows himself that one class period to freak out, then he shuts up the alarms and unclenches his fists.

If something is _really_ wrong-- aside from Peter being crazy-- he will deal with it himself.

(And the worst that can happen? The worst that can happen is… he takes the fallout. And that’s not so bad. Spider-Man falls all the time and catches himself just fine.)

 

…

 

As if in agreement, the rest of school on Monday is totally ordinary. The worst that happens is a pop quiz in Spanish, which is unfair really because who does homework over Prom weekend? Not Peter, who didn’t even go to Prom, but he scrapes by and tells himself he’ll push harder to bring that grade up.

When Ned catches up with him at lunch, Peter has already quelled the high-strung niggling from his spider-sense and smiles off his friend’s concern.

“I think I’m just stressed, honestly,” he says, eyes on the school lunch potatoes he’s twirling with a fork. Round and around til they’re nothing but shapeless goo. “I mean, when May gets sick, I stress out, so…” He mentally winces for the half-truth. Does he stress when May gets sick? Yes. Did May actually get sick? Not that he knows, based on their interaction this morning where she accused him of being out all weekend. Either way it’s something he has to investigate on his own. “Yeah. I just got stressed and-”

“-forgot a whole weekend?” Ned finishes. His tone is less challenging than it is worried.

Peter stops twirling and meets his friend’s gaze. He shrugs. “Stress?”

“Are you at least gonna ask Mister St--”

“No.”  

His friend stares at him, unsure.

Peter cuts the tension with a half-smile. “It’s fine, dude. Really, and I don’t want to cause waves over nothing. Whatever this is is not the worst thing that’s happened, you know?”

They both wince, and Peter feels kind of guilty for covertly referencing the Snap. Feels bad for kind-of-lying to Ned at all, but he can see no other way to get the other boy off his case. It does what he intended, though, because a bit of relief eases Ned’s shoulders, even if it’s only because of a diversion.

“Okay,” Ned nods tentatively. “That’s fair, I guess.” He finally starts in on his own lunch, snagging a bag of chips and popping it open. Before eating them, though, he shifts and looks down their row of lunch tables searchingly. “Hey, have you seen MJ today?” he asks, and Peter notices too that their surly friend is missing from her usual spot.

Peter is simultaneously relieved for the subject change, and cringing internally because… MJ. Yeah. He hasn’t seen her since he accidentally confessed his love for her (even if the confession was made up and-slash-or only in his mind… it’s bound to make things awkward, if only on his end).

“I haven’t,” he replies.

 

…

 

He opens the school website when he gets home and checks over what assignments his teachers have posted. Final exams are coming up, and it seems Midtown is over and done with the fun from last week-- every class has its own long list of due-dates. Ah, Junior year.

And Peter, he does his best to focus on it all, but sometimes, he’ll be in the middle of solving an equation or writing a sentence and he’ll zone out-- out, out, out until in his mind’s eye, he’s looking down on the earth from a spaceship and he wants to laugh and cry at the same time for how tiny and pointless these things are. Or he’ll think of himself as Spider-Man, and how homework had mattered when he went to Germany as a 14-year-old living day-to-day, but now he’s nearly 17 and homework is a means to a future and college and careers and will he ever get to have those things the way other people do? Does he even want to?

His pencil trembles over a half-completed page of conjugated verbs, hand unsteady with the weight of everything he doesn't want to face. He wavers there for a moment before pushing away and to his feet.

“Good afternoon, Peter,” Karen greets when he puts on the mask after suiting up. Her voice brings less giddy excitement than it used to, but it does settle his nerves. “How are you today?”

“Um. That, that is a complicated question,” he tells her. He shakes his head, climbing onto the window seal. “Doesn’t really matter. Here’s a better one: who needs a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man right now?”

 

…

 

It’s hours later when he comes home, thoroughly exhausted but on the high that comes with using his powers for good. Helping people will always be the one thing he lives for. It almost makes him forget the worries of that morning… it makes them seem smaller, at least.

It’s only now that he realizes how little he’s eaten that day, because he’s ravenous. He wanders into the kitchen still suited up and greets May, who asks him about patrol and then banters with him a bit over the cereal he is blatantly eating instead of her most recent cooking experiment. It’s something that looks like rice but smells like smoke and the woman stubbornly eats it in her own defense before giving in and grabbing some Cheerios for herself as well. They’re both laughing by the time Peter cleans the dishes and goes back to his room.

He falls into bed pajama-clad not long after, and he thinks he’s probably been blowing things out of proportion. He really was probably making a big deal over nothing. It’s just stress. Everything is fine.

 

…

 

Around 2AM, Peter wakes up.

One second he’s in a deep, dreamless place and the next he’s blinking at the dark underside of his bunk bed, heart hammering and head ringing.

At first he’s not sure what woke him— from similar situations, he’d assume a nightmare, but it’s not the same (no tears in his eyes, no fading feelings of remembered terror).

But then he realizes that the ringing isn’t in his head; his phone alarm is going off. At full volume, it sounds like, and the ringtone is an irritating beeping that he’s never used before; the screen is fully lit and casting shadows around the room, as jarring as a child wailing in the middle of the night.

“What the-?” Peter mumbles, because when did he set an alarm? He doesn’t remember doing so, but as soon as he realizes the problem, he scrambles out of bed and over to his desk, groping for the source of the noise. With fumbling hands he hits whatever buttons he can to silence it, and hopes that it hasn’t bothered May or anyone else in their thin-walled apartments.

The quiet in its wake is somehow just as loud. Eery, even.

Peter squints at the bright screen through the dark, noticing that a typed message accompanies the silenced alarm. It’s just one word, in all caps.

 

He reads it.    
  


The moment he reads it, compressed memories rush through his mind like flood from a broken dam, chaotic and indiscernible like a hundred songs playing at once. At the same time, his awareness drains from him like water through a sieve.

The phone falls out of his hand and tumbles to the floor, screen dark. A moment passes.

 

He looks up.

 

He opens his bedroom door. He walks through the living room. He puts his shoes on, and he leaves out the front.

  


…

 

In a dim, crowded garage not unlike the warehouse he spent years frequenting as a weapon designer for Adrian Toomes, Phineas Mason has to wonder how his life got to this point. Six years ago he was working at a Gamestop, living off grilled cheese and ramen (that hasn’t changed much), tinkering with gadgets on the side... He had a nice simple life then; why do all these villains have to keep dragging him into their schemes? Why is he always letting them?  

“Can you please turn that down?” he says loudly, not bothering to hide the annoyance in his tone. One difference between this guy and his last boss: Toomes acted his age. This guy is… some kind of overgrown child.

Quentin Beck, the overgrown child in question, has his booted feet propped up in the middle of Mason’s workbench like he never learned the concept of personal space, his head bobbing in tune to the noise coming from an overloud speaker nearby. He peaks over the top of the large, ornate-looking book in his lap and pouts at Mason but mercifully does reach out and turn the dial to less of a _can’t-hear-yourself-think_ level.

“What do you have against the classics, man?” Beck whines, removing his feet from the table (finally) but leaning his face in close to Mason with a face like a hurt puppy. Mason side-eyes him.

“I wouldn’t call the Glee cast version of ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’ a classic,” he says dryly.

The magician pulls back with a dramatic gasp. “Phinny, you take that back!" 

“You’re so weird,” Mason says, pointedly going back to the design he was working on.

Rather than take insult, Beck simply cackles and gets to his feet, not denying the comment. The ridiculous purple cape he insists on wearing on and off stage swooshes as he strides off, and Mason breathes a sigh of long-suffering, gaze straying to the ceiling.

How had his life gotten to this point… well, it could be worse. He could’ve been captured along with Toomes and the Shocker 2.0 when Spider-Man foiled the plane heist. When Toomes destroyed their old hideout, no evidence was left to point to his involvement and the last correspondence of theirs was Mason yelling over coms for his boss to ditch the plane when it was obviously going down. Whether driven by pride and desperation, or bloodlust for Spider-Man, the man hadn’t listened. And now he’s staring at the inside of a cell, so it just goes to show that nobody ever listened to Mason anyway. Never appreciated him aside from shoving appropriated alien tech his way and not caring about his genius so long as he produced decent weapons for sale.

So the plane went down, and the good thing they had going went up in flames like so many crates of goods on an empty beach. And Mason hurriedly trashed all evidence connecting him to Toomes and went back to his one bedroom apartment and laid under his covers all night, snacking anxiously on cheetos and hoping the police or Iron Man wouldn’t come knocking down his door.

They didn’t. He got off unnoticed. Typical, but in his favor for once.

And life got pretty normal after that… until the dusting thing. All that? He still doesn’t really know what happened with all that. Space people did things and the Avengers fixed it and Mason played Fortnight the whole time to cope. It wasn’t long after everybody came back that he met _him_. The flashy magic man. The opposite of his dark-and-brooding Batman-esque former boss.

Beck approached him when he was getting off work one night (back at a Gamestop) and revealed in the most drama-laced way possible that he knew about Mason’s past-- how he found out is still a mystery to Mason, but obviously he had him on the ropes from the start because it’s not like he wants that information getting out. A proposition was made for partnership: in exchange for money and new materials, “the Great Mysterio” wanted his help with equipment… and any information he had on Spider-Man.

Mason was agreeing before he really thought it through, because for one thing he was freaked out by the guy, and for another he really did miss getting to be “the Tinkerer” (he’d long since put the moral consideration of who/what/why he tinkered for on a back burner); but also the interest in Spider-Man reminded him of something he’d never quite figured out from that last night with Toomes: 

He’d stationed the Shocker 2.0 outside of a _high school_ to stop Spider-Man. Why?

As the project coordinator, of course Mason overheard the communication and though he didn’t have time to dwell on it then, it definitely stuck with him. It also sparked a terrifying enthusiasm in Quentin Beck. That enthusiasm led to the last few weeks of infiltrating various high schools in the Midtown district. If he’s being honest, Mason wasn't really sure if anything would come of it...until it did. 

He’s jolted out of his thoughts with a start when the side door to the garage suddenly squeaks and begins swinging open. In the half second that he waits for whoever it is to reveal themself, Mason admittedly has a small freak-out, thinking that the police have come for him at last and he should’ve seen this coming and shame on him for trusting anyone besides the nice guy who delivers Papa Johns to his house once in awhile--

But then the small figure steps inside and shuts the door behind himself quietly, and Mason clutches a hand to his chest. “Oh, it’s just you,” he breathes, laughing shakily. “Holy guac, kid, you almost gave me a heart attack.”

Peter Parker does not respond. Just stands there by the door, arms at his sides, looking too impossibly innocent with mussed hair and Star Wars pajamas to be the red-and-blue superhero of New York. He could’ve been any kid who just happened to sleepwalk his way in here. The dazed emptiness in his eyes only compounds that look. 

“Uh,” Mason says, clearing his throat self-consciously. He looks around, sees that Beck is still gone. Gets to his feet. “Boss, the kid is here!” When there’s no response, he taps at the stereo until it goes quiet.

“Ey! Who turned off my tunes?” Beck’s voice complains from another room.

“The kid is here!” Mason repeats.

A pause. Mason hears the magician giggle to himself. “Okay, I’ll be right out!” 

The Tinkerer deflates and turns back to the kid, who hasn’t moved. “Uh, he’s coming. Sorry about that,” he says, taking his seat again.

The Parker kid doesn’t seem to mind. He stays where he is.

The quiet in the wake of the music is awkward, to Mason at least. He twiddles a screwdriver nervously. “So… nice weather we’ve been having?”

Silence.

“...I mean, it’s a good time of year if you like going outside,” Mason adds. “Doesn’t make a difference to me whether it’s May or September, to be honest.”

Peter blinks, still looking at nothing. Mason thinks he looks like a zombie, and the thought makes him shudder.

“Anyway...”  

“Ta-da!” Beck sings, appearing in the doorway at the other side of the room with a flourish, a piece of clothing in his hands held up like it’s the solution to all their problems. Mason notices how, at the sound of his voice, Peter seems to straighten a bit, head turning in the direction of the magician.

Beck, however, doesn’t acknowledge the boy just yet. He traipses over to the work bench and shoves the clothes in Mason’s nose. “Look at this! Look at this and tell me what you think!”

Aaaand annoyance is back. Mason appraises the thing: a red hoodie with a black spider drawn over the chest. Or, what’s supposed to be a spider but-- “It’s only got six legs.”

Beck tilts his head. “Huh?”

“This bug has six legs, it’s not a spider, spiders have eight legs,” Mason explains.

“Really?” His new boss looks closer at the fabric, like it might be hiding an extra set of legs. “That’s crazy, are you sure?” At Mason’s nod, he swipes a black fabric marker out of some pocket on his person and uncaps it, leaning in and adding a couple thick lines onto his drawing.  

“Now it’s perfect, right?” Finally he turns toward Peter, a playful grin curling his lips. “Peter, tell me this looks perfect!”

“It looks perfect,” Peter says, face unchanging.

A chill runs down Mason’s spine. “It’s so creepy when you do that,” he mutters.

“Aw, do what?” Beck coos, setting the clothes down to go and cup a hand on the unresponsive kid’s cheek. “I’m just getting the approval of my new little brother-in-arms.”

“When you pull his strings like that,” Mason insists, watching the man walk Peter further into the garage and prod him to sit. “It’s like... some voodoo thing. Mind control.”

“Now, Phinny,” Beck says, tossing a condescending smile his way before busying himself with some equipment. “You’re a man of science yourself. You know hypnosis is completely explainable without resorting to primitive terms like _voodoo_. I’m simply flicking switches in his head that he uses every day.”

“Creepy,” Mason reaffirms, remembering the weirdness of the previous days as the mechanic hum of Beck’s homemade machine starts up. 

 

_Beck had kicked the door open and come in with a boy passed out in his arms._

_“Don’t tell me you killed someone?!” Mason squeaked._

_“Okay, A? You have so little faith in me, comrade,” Beck said, clearing a space on the table and setting the boy down among the rest of the weapons. “B, of course he’s not dead, don’t you think I know better ways to deal with a dead body than bring it home? Silly, of course I do. And C—and this is most important— this isn’t just any kid. This is the_ Spider _-Kid. Spider-_ Man _as he is formally known.”_

_He’d brushed some hair out of the boy’s half-lidded eyes and grinned like a child with a new playmate, but Mason still doubted._

_“Are you sure? You didn’t just gas some random cosplayer, right?”_

_“I might’ve gone a bit overboard on the gas this time,” Beck admitted sheepishly. “I wasn’t sure how big of a dose his particular metabolism needed so I flooded the alley…”_

_“Oh my lanta.” Mason dropped his head in his hands._

_“But there were no witnesses, I swear!” the man promised hurriedly. “He’s just a little sleepy right now, that’s all! In a little while we can begin practicing together… I’m sure he can give you a demonstration of his Spidery-ness then. I am— at least 89% sure this is the right high schooler. Who would’ve thought, right? The same figure who scares the criminals of Queens witless is a child who’s probably never even shaved before.”_

_And as ridiculous as that all was, Mysterio was right... in the same manner he manipulated the volunteers in his magic shows, he’d gotten the boy to admit to everything. His name. His powers. His closest contacts. After that Beck spent their time in what was like ‘obedience training’, for lack of a better word, and that’s the part that creeped Mason out-- he’d respond like a puppet being given orders. And weirder, the kid would almost seem to ‘wake up’ once in awhile, coming to awareness in brief intervals before Mysterio put him back under. Like his mind was resisting._

_“He and I need to build up our rapport before I can get him to do anything_ too _crazy,” Beck explained. “Every hypnotist has to establish a connection like that. The more practice, the better he’ll follow instructions.”_

 

“There you go, little buddy,” Beck is saying in the present moment. He’s placed an oxygen mask over the kid’s face and something is flowing, but it’s certainly not oxygen. “Deep breath for me. You just gotta take some more medicine...persuade those super senses into a little vacation…”

Peter complies. His eyelids flutter weakly as he exhales, and Beck is quick to remove the mask after the one lungful. He whispers something in the boy’s ear and presses a couple fingers to the pulse point in his neck.

“Boss?” Mason says uncertainly. “Look, I’m not trying to rush you or anything, but, like-- you or I could’ve walked into the kid’s high school and stolen this stuff ourselves so why make him do it? Plus, it’s not even that great of a haul. What am I supposed to build from this?” He gestures over to where the couple of Midtown shop tools sitting on the counter.

Mysterio tuts, getting up. “Patience, you silly little tropical fish,” he says placatingly, shaking his head and tapping Mason on the nose and causing the smaller man to pull a face. “That was just a field test. Today we move on to bigger and better things. I’m thinking… Spider-Man versus bank? We deserve a little payday, don't you think?”

With that, he snatches up the red Spider-drawn hoodie and a pair of blue pants and goes to deliver some new orders to their unwitting ally.

...

...

...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dun dun dun ...GASlighting.
> 
> SO YEAH i promise not to take 234567890 years on the next chapter guys plz forgive a girl. school tried to actually kill me. i am on break for spring/summer now so let's heccin do this thing!!


	4. all the stars we steal from the night sky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He sees like looking through a glass, darkly. 
> 
> Purpose moves his legs, quiets his footsteps, sharpens his glances, but the purpose is not known beyond that it is, and it does not require thought beyond the ability to complete a goal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for THAt wait... instead of making me not-sad, a new med made me not able to eat or sleep for a week and then have my first panic attack :))) I'm on a new new med and feeling so much better now. yeet~
> 
> I find it relevant in light of this to tell you now rather than at the end of the story as I was planning: I planned this story intending for Mysterio to be a sort-of personification of mental illness in Peter's life (at least as far as my own experience). I mean it was firstly for the whump and IronDad but... also that. If it changes anything from your point of view, I'd be interested to know. If not u may ignore this and carry on.
> 
> happy day~

_..._

_..._

_..._

 

_He sees like looking through a glass, darkly._

 

 _Purpose moves his legs, quiets his footsteps, sharpens his glances, but the purpose is not known beyond that it_ **_is_ ** _, and it does not require thought beyond the ability to complete a goal. His strength is there, when he reaches for it, to drive his fist into the solar plexus of someone with a security badge and lower their unconscious form to the floor; his wit is there, when he pulls the man’s keycard from his belt and uses it to get through doors without setting off alarms; his powers, too, when he uses his gloved fingertips alone to lift the heavy glass off a case of jewels and plucks each item out and into a knapsack without leaving a trace. These things, though, the things that are usually his… they’re not his right now._

_He finds he doesn’t care._

_There is a moment— when he is done and leaving with the items, a couple of security guards come at him like children wanting to play fight, and he is not deterred until the last one standing looks at him with fear on his face._

_“Spider-Man, why...why’re you doing this? You’re better than this, man!”_

_A lancet of pain in his head gives him pause. From somewhere, a voice not present:_ “I wanted you to be better.”

_He pauses too long. The guard is still speaking, saying things that bring more confusion, but the hand reaching for his weapon does not go unnoticed. For a second there is floundering, unsureness—_

_—Then there’s the Voice in his earpiece. The one Voice that he knows to listen to, it speaks bluntly one Word. At the sound of it, he is reminded of his unnamed purpose, and hesitation fades in a swell of mindlessness._

_The man is left on the floor with the rest._

_Flashes of red and blue are pathetically late to the scene, their noises inconsequential and distant as he runs and flips unseen from building top to building top until he reaches the place to slow and scramble down to the garage below. There he doesn’t hesitate to open the side door and step inside._

_His present purpose is accomplished. Things fade to static for a time._

_Like the tuning of an old radio, the sound of the Voice pulls him in and out of contact with reality… he has the vague impression of praise being given. A necklace of pearls is pulled from the knapsack he filled not long ago and the person with the Voice lays it about his neck like a noose._

_“You did so good, little buddy!” it says. “So, so good!”_

_“Boss?” a less important voice says from somewhere nearby. “We probably oughta send him home, it’s pretty much morning at this point.”_

_Closer, a sigh. “You’re not wrong, Phinny.” A hand removes the ski mask and ruffles his hair affectionately, then there are eyes like pools of deep water in front of him. He drowns in them like a bug in flypaper while instructions are given:_

_“Peter, you know what you’re gonna do now? Well, first you’re gonna change back into your pajamas, because you’re tired, so, so tired, and you’re gonna go straight home and get back into bed for a couple hours of well-deserved rest. And when you wake up, you’re not gonna remember any of this. Forget it all until you hear the trigger word again, got it? Nod for me.”_

_He nods, head weighted with a sudden fatigue._

_The second speaks again, sounding tentative: “Hey, Q, are you sure this next part is gonna work, because like, it seems like kind of a stretch to me—”_

_The eyes in front of his face tighten in sudden, muted anger. He feels his own fists curl in response. But then the man relaxes into a carefree smile and pulls away and the feeling passes. “Oh, friend, when will you start trusting me? Hasn’t everything worked out so far?”_

_“I’m just saying…”_

_“_ Of course _it will go as planned. I chose_ that _word because it has special meaning to them and only them. It’s bound to be said at just the right time. I gave him instructions so he’ll get what we need, and then you can finish my suit, and then we can move on to the next stage! Get it, stage?”_

_As the men speak he begins to act on his new purpose, standing and quickly changing into the night clothes that lay in a pile beside him on the couch. He slips his shoes back on and stands to head for the door, forgetfulness already falling over him._

_“Peter, wait just a minute.”_

_He stops._

_Footsteps approach, and a hand turns his shoulder gently._

_“This,” whispers the Voice, looping a hand into the pearls at his throat, “is not yours to keep just yet. Soon, though! Soon it’ll be just you and me and you can have whatever you want.”_

_The hand tugs, and with a pop the necklace bursts sending pearls flying across the floor like so many shards of something beautiful broken._

 

 

Peter jolts awake.

“Oooh, my head,” he groans, voice cracking with sleep, and shoves a palm into his forehead as he sits upright on the bottom bunk. Scattered echoes of the previous night’s dream dance elusively at the edge of his mind, just out of reach, but the feeling of trying to remember makes his head ache… the same as it’s been each morning for the last few days.

Just like the last few days, he feels even less rested than when he went to bed.

He blows out a long breath and gropes around for his phone (which he’s been leaving on the floor lately for whatever reason) and checks the time. At the sight of the date, a tiny thrill in his chest wakes him up further and he smiles because _finally_. Finally it’s Friday— not just the start of a weekend, but a lab day with Tony at that.

As he stretches and gets up, the thought occurs to him, not for the first time, of what he should tell his mentor when he asks for an update about the phone conversation they had last week if it comes up. A niggling little feeling in the back of his mind still wants to panic and spill everything, but for the most part, he’s put it past him. Monday was actually the most stressful day of the week— since then he’s felt perfectly fine, if more tired than usual. He’s gotten some essays done, he’s successfully avoided MJ (who must be sick or something because she hasn’t returned to school thus far), and heck, he doesn’t think his spider-sense has even gone off once. Though to be fair, he gave himself a tiny break from patrolling… to make room for school stuff and whatnot. It’s an attempt at balance.

(He wants to think he was just being overly dramatic the other day. Of course he’ll have a hopeful future, this is just— just a rough period for him right now for some reason.)

It’s when he’s changing into jeans that something, something that must’ve been stuck in his nightshirt, suddenly plinks to the floor and goes rolling. He looks down at it and blinks.

A pearl.

“What the…” he mutters, picking it up and frowning. “Did May lose an earring on me?”

With a shrug he sets it on his nightstand and carries on.

…

“Morning, Mister,” May greets him when he comes out to breakfast. She’s stirring scrambled eggs and puts some on a plate for him as he sits.

“Hey, May,” he answers around a large yawn. He rubs his eyes tiredly.

“Sleep well?” she asks, sitting down across from him. She doesn’t have a plate of her own, but simply folds her arms.

Peter decides on a softened version of the truth, picking up his fork and poking at the food. “Um… could’ve been worse...You?”

“Could’ve been worse,” she echoes, faintly teasing but also watching him intently over the rim of her glasses. “Could’ve been better though… especially if my kid weren’t sneaking out of the house at all hours.”

The fork freezes halfway to his mouth.

“What?” he half-laughs, not sure if this is, like… a test or something.

But May gets a look on her face then, a look that means she’s serious. “Peter,” she sighs. “I thought we’d both agreed to no more secrets… and you know the curfew for ‘spider stuff’ is very important to me.”

The edge of disappointment in her tone immediately fills Peter with anxiety. He wasn’t lying when he told Mr. Stark so long ago, ‘when she freaks out, I freak out’- her stress levels directly affect his, and pleasing her is... one of the only things that still matters to him. The accusation of disobedience is bewildering, yes, but also fills him with terrible guilt he can’t explain— like he knows she’s right somehow and he did something wrong, even though his memory can’t confirm it.

“W-woah, what?” he starts, frowning in confusion. He splays his hands on the table earnestly. “I didn’t sneak out! I promise, I- I wouldn’t do that, Aunt May! I told you I wouldn’t do that anymore.”

She levels him with another look, this one potently disappointed now. Peter’s chest constricts.

“I saw you leave, Peter,” she says softly. “Last night— well, I’d thought I heard something the night before, an alarm going off or something, and I didn’t want to suspect you of anything, you know I don’t like assuming. I want to trust you. But I got up last night for the restroom and I heard the door shutting so I checked it out; you weren’t in your room, and your shoes were gone.”

As she talks, something happens to the guilt bubbling behind Peter’s sternum— it’s still there, still making him feel terrible, but like a chemical reaction, there is a bitter feeling of defensiveness emerging, clawing up into his throat against his will.

He’s never really had a moody teenager phase because his powers came in before he could and then after the argument with Uncle Ben that— yeah, that last one with Uncle Ben… he’s been careful to keep himself as polite and respectful as possible to his remaining guardian. Despite this, he feels like he has no control over the childish indignation that springs into his tone:

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you’re wrong!” he insists, scowling. “Why are you accusing me of lying and- and doing things I didn’t do? I was here in bed all night, you probably just dreamed that stuff!”

She says nothing to this, but the hard look she is giving him tells him enough: she doesn’t believe him. A beat passes in which they consider one another.

“You don’t trust me.” His voice is incredulous, angry, but he suddenly feels on the verge of tears for no reason. He pushes away from the table and gets to his feet, food still untouched. “Fine,” he mutters, and grabs his backpack, making for the door.

“Hey,” May calls firmly, and he looks over his shoulder. She looks bemused at his behavior, regarding him like a stranger as she says, “I just want you to tell me the truth, Pete. I know what I saw. It’s okay if, I mean… I know… I know you’ve been having some nightmares. We can- if you need some help, we can—”

“No,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “No, I’m fine.”

She stands, reaching a hand out toward him. He takes a step back.

“I’m _fine,_  May!” he says, louder than he means to. Her pitying look darkens.

“Peter Benjamin, I don’t care for your tone—”

“Yeah, well, you’re _not my mom_!”

They both jolt away from one another, frozen, the room feeling dunked under ice water.

May’s hand pulls back slowly.

And Peter- Peter stumbles back the last few steps to the door and he runs. He runs and the last image of _hurt_ in his aunt’s eyes pulses white-hot like a brand on his soul.

…

By the time he gets to school, even having run all the way rather than taking the subway, he’s still about ten minutes early and his breaths are shuddering through his frame like tremors from an earthquake.

(In his hurry to get away, and distracted by internal distress, he doesn’t notice the newspaper stands or storefront TV headlines or even the plentiful gossip of passersby.)

As he’s sliding into his seat in homeroom—the first and only one in the class— he gets a text from Ned reminding him that his friend is missing first and second periods for a dentist appointment and needs Peter to take notes for him. Peter sees this but he can’t reply right now; all he can do is put his forehead on the cool surface of the desk, focus on breathing, and try not to re-live his and May’s argument behind his eyelids.

“Why did I run?” he whispers against the grain, tugging his hands through his hair. “Stupid, stupid, _stupid._ ”

He’s never fought with May like that before. And he just... left her. Didn’t even try to apologize or take it back, even though it burned his throat coming out and he regretted it the moment it hit the air.

So much for a great start to this Friday.

He takes out his phone, hovers a thumb over May’s contact and mulls over the pros and cons of disowning himself for her via text right then and there. The more he thinks about it, the more awful what transpired becomes in his mind, and the dark cloud of thoughts blocks out the sounds of the bell ringing and his chatting peers coming in and taking their seats around him. He only zones back in when the teacher clears her throat and tells everyone authoritatively to put their phones away and quiet down for morning announcements.

Despite this, nobody pays much attention. A group of kids behind Peter all seem to be whisper-debating about something, and the noise from both them and the TV cancel one another out. Peter just rests his head in one hand miserably and scribbles pencil spirals on a sheet of notebook paper in anticipation of taking notes for Ned. At least it’s something else to focus on.    

And then, because the universe loves him, the professor announces that she’s oh-so-graciously giving them the class period to work on homework rather than listen to a prepared lecture, and there goes Peter’s distraction.

He’s making to get a textbook out of his bag when he catches onto a new distraction entirely, in the form of a loud remark from the conversation going on behind him:

“I’m telling you, Spider-Man would never do these things! He’s being set up!”

It’s Flash Thompson’s voice. He sounds uncharacteristically resolute.

And of course the topic of conversation gets Peter’s attention.

He glances back, seeing a group of kids with their desks huddled together on the pretense of working together on an assignment, but none of them is writing or looking at their textbook. Rather, a girl has her phone out and she and Flash and a couple other kids are peering at it with expressions ranging from excitement to disbelief.

“Dude, they caught him on tape,” one kid is saying, looking particularly smug. “And the news said that one of the security guards from the store last night _swears_ it was him.”

The girl holding the phone shakes her head. “It doesn’t make sense- Spidey saved the decathlon team last year, remember? He’s, like, a good guy. Why would he start doing this now? What’s the M.O.?”

Flash starts to say something, but he’s interrupted by the other boy. “I’ll tell you the M.O.,” the kid says. “It’s just like my dad’s always said- the freak’s been helping out here and there, earning our trust and whatnot, but he’s always been outside of the law and now this is just him showing his true colors.”

Peter’s heard his alter ego take backlash before, but this is… different. Concerning.

“I’m telling you, that’s bull!” Flash growls. “This imposter doesn’t even use webs, and that’s like, Spider-Man’s whole thing! And he’s in the old outfit, why would he go back to using the old outfit?”

“Maybe Iron Man doesn’t want his tech to be associated with _this_ version of Spider-Man,” the girl suggests, looking doubtful.

“Yeah, and if it was a fake, how come the ‘real’ Spidey hasn’t stepped up and said anything, huh? There’ve been no sightings of him in the Stark suit since Monday, and that was before he went rogue.”

That’s it.

“Hey,” Peter finally says, turning around fully. The group looks at him. “What are you guys talking about? Is something— what’re people saying about Spider-Man?”

“Dude, haven’t you heard?” the girl says, turning and holding her phone out with the screen facing Peter. “It’s, like, all anyone’s talking about this morning. Apparently Spider-Man broke into a store, and that’s just the thing they got witnesses for.”

He leans forward and peers at the news article pulled up: “SPIDER-MAN ON CRIME SPREE? SERIES OF ROBBERIES LINKED TO THE SO-CALLED VIGILANTE.”

Chills ghost up Peter’s spine, the closest thing he’s felt to his Spider-sense all week.

There’s a still image accompanying the article from what is clearly a security tape: a figure, face obscured by a ski mask but clearly sporting a hoodie with a spider emblem on the chest, carrying a knapsack filled with stolen jewelry past several fallen guards.

 

Wait a sec.

 

Jewelry… like pearls…

Peter’s head snaps up.

The odd, senseless guilt he felt at Aunt May’s accusations that morning is suddenly back full-force. Only this time there is panic rising because… well, he’s not stupid and there are some puzzle pieces looking very much like they go together all of a sudden.

For example: Peter being tired, like- like he didn’t sleep. May thinking he left the house. But.

This is.

Crazy.

 

It’s just a coincidence.

“ _—dressed_ as Spider-Man, that doesn’t mean that it’s _him,_ ” Flash is saying, glaring heatedly at the kid who’s clearly not on his side. He’s so worked up that he doesn’t even acknowledge Peter’s entrance to the conversation, not even to tease him for being behind on the gossip.

“This was last night?” Peter asks the girl as she withdraws her phone. “Last night, you said?

She nods. “ _This_ thing was last night, but it’s more than that; it’s just being talked about because he took out, like, five security guys without breaking a sweat. They’re saying that this week alone, the same Spider-guy robbed a bank and some tech stores as well. Like he’s got an agenda.”

“Like his _imposter_ has an agenda,” Flash corrects.

“That’s why I said ‘Spider-guy’. Because it might not be Spider-Man.”

“We shouldn’t even be—”

The teacher takes that moment to walk in on their blatantly not-homework-related-chatter and chastises them for wasting time, so grudgingly the group of teens give up the conversation for now.

…

When lunch rolls around, the guilt-slash-panic hasn’t quite settled but Peter does his best to ignore these things (and his freak out with May) and be in the moment.

Maybe he does have an imposter ( _coincidences_ ), which sucks, but it isn’t the end of the world; Tony will probably know what to do about it. He’s got experience with bad publicity, right? If even the greatest hero in the world has bad publicity then Peter shouldn't feel so bad.

 

By lunch hour Ned is back to school.

“Dude, we cannot let this stand!” is the first thing his friend says, dropping down to sit by Peter before Peter’s even spotted him, and it makes him jump slightly. Odd, because since the Bite people haven’t been able to sneak up on him at all. The genuinely angry note to his usually cheerful friend’s voice is also a surprise.

“Some- some- _fake_ is out there ruining your good name!” Ned seethes, solving that mystery.

Peter shushes his friend, like he often has to, and rolls his eyes as he ducks into his backpack for Ned’s class notes, but he has to admit he does breathe a bit easier hearing Ned’s fervent rejection of the news reports.

And then, as he straightens, something he’s been dreading all week happens:

MJ reappears.

“Sup dorks,” the girl says as she tosses a book on the table before sitting down a few feet from Ned.

“And where’ve you been lately?” Ned asks her accusingly. “Decathlon is kind of hard to have without anyone to reign in Flash, you know.”

She makes an “eh” face without looking up at them, pulling a plastic container of food from her bag. “I have my secrets. Peter’s not the only one who can disappear.”

Peter and Ned share a look across the table, Ned’s eyes wide and Peter’s squinted.

“And on a completely unrelated note,” she says, in that dry way of hers that could either be casual sarcasm or the prerequisite to her about to roast somebody, “Spider-Man has been quite the story this morning.”

To be clear: Peter has never told MJ that he is Spider-Man.

But on occasion, she will throw out a nonchalant, “So Peter, what are your thoughts on red-and-blue spandex?” or aim spider-related trivia at him specifically when they come up in practice, etc. As they’ve become better friends, Peter has _considered_ calling her out on this, confronting her. But he hasn’t really... got around to it. He's not a confrontational person, not usually, not on an interpersonal level.

Ned, bless him, rolls with it.

“Yeah and it _sucks,_ ” he says, slipping back into authentic moodiness. “The fake isn’t even using, like, a halfway decent costume. Spider-Man never used a ski-mask, he used goggles that were legit. This is an affront to his heroism.”

“It’s not the first time people have bad-mouthed him, I’m sure he’ll live,” Peter mumbles, looking downward as he unscrews a water bottle.

MJ hums, not joking but not nearly as troubled as Ned. “I bet Flash is having a field day.”

“Oh yeah, he was going off in homeroom,” Peter says, looking up at her. He notices that she’s watching him with a bit of a crack in her usual facade: there’s something of genuine… concern? Care?

“I’ll beat him for you,” she offers. So, MJ-style care.

“W-what? Why?” Ned asks, eyeing Peter again, both thinking of what the _'for you'_ means.

“Because he’s a doofus who needs to be put in his place on occasion,” she goes on. “I bet I could get him to drop it for good.”

Peter’s brow furrows. “Drop what?”

She narrows her eyes at him, then at Ned. “Uh… the Peter-confessing-to-being-Spider-Man gag? School-wide embarrassment show, last week, remember that?”

 

Peter chokes on his drink.

 

He has to cough for a moment or two, his eyes watering by the time he can look up again. They’re watching him in confusion, but once it’s clear that he won’t hack up a lung, Ned turns his confusion on MJ.

“What…What?” He gives a nervous laugh. “Peter _isn’t_ Spider-Man. Where would you get that idea?”

It’s about as convincing as a dropout actor reading lines.

MJ rolls her eyes up to the ceiling but smirks a bit. “Okay. _Sure_ . _I’m_ just referring to when he said he was, whether it’s true or not, during the ‘Great Mysterio’’s hand-wavy trick.”

“You remember that?” Peter asks, and his voice squeaks with…he doesn’t know what.

Ned’s confusion deepens. “Mysterio?” he repeats. “We didn’t have anything like- I mean, I don’t even remember what the guy was called, but I think I’d remember, uh, all _that_.” Suddenly he looks at Peter. “Wait- Weren’t you... on Monday, weren’t you saying something about that too? Some... hypnotist guy?”

“Ned,” MJ says, turning to face him with her whole torso. “You were literally one of his volunteers. How do you not know what I’m talking about?”

“He had people come up,” Peter says softly. “People whose hands couldn’t pull apart.”

MJ nods. “Yeah, that guy.”

“ _What_?” Ned says again, sounding like someone left out of a joke.

It’s not registering, the dots aren’t connecting, Peter doesn’t know what to think or say or do. But then MJ is going on, exasperated into spewing more words than she usually does:

“Morita hired a guy to come entertain us on Friday, right? We’re on the same page there? Okay, so _that_ guy, he had a stupid purple cape and a fishbowl helmet at one point, he called himself Mysterio? And he was putting people to sleep in chairs and he was all like, ‘when I count to five, you’re gonna wake up and when you hear the word ‘quack’, you think you’re a duck,’ et cetera, et cetera, and he was getting people to do stupid stuff on command like stand and sit and come and speak-”

 

 

_“-and keep hopping on one foot for me, Pete buddy,” the Voice commands smoothly, humor in its tone. “Come on, get back up, you can do it.”_

_Peter lies on the unswept floor of some rundown place he’s never seen before...isn’t sure how he’s seeing it now, how he got there, but his ankle throbs slightly from when it twisted to the side and gave out under an hour of vigorous jumping._

_“Where’m I?” he slurs, blinking rapidly as if to clear away fog._

_Someone’s booted feet approach sideways from his perspective and a figure kneels down._

_“Oh, you,” says a person, a person who’s been speaking for awhile now… right? “Tapped back in again, are we?”_

_A hand smoothes strands of hair back from his forehead and he cringes away, not liking the unfamiliarity of it, not trusting it for reasons he can’t pinpoint because his head is underwater._

_He tilts his neck back and peers upward._

_Bewildered recognition._

_“You- you’re... what’s happ’ning?” he manages._

_The man from school, Mysterio, he smiles like he’s Peter’s friend. But he’s not, he’s not, he’s-_

_“Hey bud,” he says. “Maybe we went too hard on that one, my bad. Let’s take a break and get some food in you, how’s that? Phinny, could you get something for my little bro to eat, please?”_

_A muted reply. Someone moves around but Peter loses track of them; arms are hoisting him up, and the room tilts, and then he’s sitting in a chair and resting his upper body on a table so much for support that he finally catches up to the fact that something is wrong, something is wrong with_ him _._

_As the blur stabilizes a bit, he remembers:_

_Being drugged. Being taken. Being ordered to do… random things. Pointless things, like jumping and retrieving things from shelves but also not-pointless things like using his powers, hanging from the ceiling, telling his secrets, his fears, his hopes and dreams-_

_Doing everything he was ordered._

_Not caring._

_“I’ll have you forget all about it, don’t worry,” the man says in response to Peter’s buzzing alarm, like he can read his mind._

_Oh gosh. Can he read minds?_

_Mysterio chuckles, which isn’t an answer but might as well be._

_A plate of food is set beside him. He raises his head weakly, not looking at it but looking at Mysterio._

_“What are you going to do?” he asks, striving for defiance despite his fear. “What do you want with me?”_

_Peter can’t understand why the man’s face is so friendly-looking._

_“Why, I just want to help you, Spider-boy,” he says slowly, reinforcing the conundrum._

_Then he taps the plate closer to Peter and says in a topic-changing way, “So, meal break to rejuvenate you, and then maybe get some rest and we’ll go again? Sound good?”_

_He presses a utensil into Peter’s hand._

_Peter eats._

_He does it of his own will, thinking that maybe whatever he’s been drugged with will work out of his system faster if he gives it a few more minutes, gets some strength back. And it does seem to work at first- as he’s eating the food he didn’t taste, he covertly spies out what’s around him that he can use to attack, maps an escape route to the only door he sees, presumably the exit, and just as he’s finishing he readies himself to make his move but-_

_“Do you think you’re hypnotized right now, Peter?”_

_He grits his teeth and looks up. “You’re craz-”_

_Mysterio interrupts, ever smiling, “Let’s see!” He sticks a hand in front of Peter’s nose and snaps._

“Sleep.”

_And like a light switch being flicked out, Peter falls into blackness again._

 

 

“-eter. _Peter_. Peter, can you hear us? Seriously, dude, you’re freaking us out-”

Peter comes back to himself gasping, fingers pressed tight to his temples.

Looking up, he sees the worried gazes of Ned, then Michelle, then beyond them, people from nearby tables who are staring. Most look away awkwardly when he looks at them.

Then he looks at his hands, shaking in front of him.

“Oh, no,” he whispers.

“Peter,” Ned says again, softer and with some relief in his tone but still a hefty load of concern. “What just happened? Are you okay? You just zoned out for like, a whole minute.”

“And you look like you’ve seen a ghost,” MJ adds, looking pale herself.

But Peter is shaking his head, the motion slow but becoming frantic.

“Oh no, oh no, oh no,” he pants, his heart beating like a drum. He stands suddenly, startling his friends.

“I have to see Mr. Stark. I have to see Mr. Stark _right now._ ”

And before his friends can do more than call after him he runs from the lunchroom, barely stopping to change into his suit before he’s slinging his way across the city faster than he’s ever done before.

 

…

 

“Okay, honey, hear me out: I know this is about us and not me, I _know_ that, but-”

“Tony.”

“-think about it for a sec, just imagine! Red and gold as the wedding colors! Iconic, right?” ("Iconic": a word he picked up from his Gen Z protoge.)

Pepper sighs, but he sees that her face is smiling when she puts her forehead in her palm. On the screen of the video call, her hotel room is dark and lit by yellow lamps in contrast with the natural lighting of midday sunshine lighting up the kitchen on the penthouse floor of the compound.

He just stares at the screen saying nothing until she looks up again, and at the sight of his probably dopey-lovey-eyed face, she laughs and her nose crinkles like he loves.

“But maybe not,” he says meekly.

She purses her lips. “I’ll think about it. And if I do choose some shade of red and gold, it won’t be just those. Too obviously work-related.”

Tony nods, childishly delighted. “Okay, that’s good. That’s more than good; you’re so much smarter than me, honey. Man, I just need you to come home soon and marry me. I can’t wait to tell people you’re my ex-girlfriend.”

“You better not,” she says. Then looking behind him, her smile falls and she says, “Are you burning something?”

Tony turns around and sees the smoke rising. “Uh-” He hurriedly removes the pan from the hot burner, grabbing a kitchen towel and waving over the stove.

“How can you make complex machines and still burn food?”

He quips over his shoulder, “You know how many fires I start on accident in the lab? Er, never mind, forget I said that- You’re just distracting me with your beauty, Miss Potts.”

A yawn. “Well maybe I should go anyway. It is getting late over here and the dress shopping starts bright and early tomorrow… you know my sister will make me try on everything in the store. It’ll be hours.” She looks to the ceiling and shakes her head.

He turns back around once the fire’s averted, opening his mouth to tell her he could just as well hire any designer she wants to make a wedding dress that pleases both her and her family right from the get-go, when-

“Boss, Spider-Man is scaling the outside of the building,” Friday announces.

Tony is so startled he nearly drops the spatula. “The kid?” he says in surprise. “Wait, what day is it? Isn’t it Friday, Friday?”

“It is Friday,” Friday confirms.

“Ditching school,” Pepper _tsks_ , not sounding worried. She knows Peter enough to know he’s not actually a trouble maker. “Sounds like he needs a talking to from his Iron _Dad_. Though maybe it's you he's taking after.”

At some point long gone, that comment would’ve given Tony pause, elicit a snarky comeback... but at this time, at this moment-

(after the dust and flaking, after the grief, after the tooth-and-nail fighting to get him back)

-well, he’s already gravitating to the windows, questions and concern on the tip of his tongue.

Pepper knows it.

“We’ll talk tomorrow,” she says gently. “Make sure he’s okay.” The call ends.

He paces to the bedroom Peter often uses when he stays the night (like he would’ve tonight, from what they had planned), and sure enough he hears a thump up ahead like a body against the window, the one he keeps unlocked just in case… just in case. What _this_ “case” is, he doesn’t know, but by the look on Peter’s face when he barrels around the corner and pulls his mask off his face looking nearly as pale and scared as he did that day on an alien planet-

 

(“ _Save me, save me_ ” - and Tony did)

 

-he doesn’t have a good feeling about it.

“Mr. Stark!” Peter gasps, seeing him and stopping in his tracks, for what looks like the first time since he started moving however long ago. There’s sweat on his forehead, sticking errant curls this way and that, and his knees shake a bit as he stands there, chest heaving. “I need to- I need to tell you-”

Tony closes the distance and puts a steadying hand on the kid’s shoulder, looking him in the eyes (not having to look down anymore, he realized at some point after Titan) but trying to keep his voice light as he greets, “Pete, woah- come sit down, bud. You’re looking a little, uh, peaky. And you’re a few hours sooner than expected; couldn’t wait for your favorite day of the every-other-week?”

He steers the kid back to the kitchen island and with quiet prompting gets him to take a seat on a barstool, Tony content to keep his feet but leaning on the adjacent counter to keep eye contact. Peter looks so shaken, it’s starting to prickle Tony’s nerves in all the wrong ways, gets all the worst case scenarios flashing through his head.

“Peter. Did something happen to May?” he asks seriously. It’s the first thing he can think of that would get Peter this worked up.

Peter looks up at him sharply, his panting slowing. “What?” he says. Shakes his head. “No, no. I mean I- I was an awful kid to her this morning but that’s just a part of it, 'cuz she was right. She was _right_ and Mr. Stark, I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what’s going on and I’m-” he cuts himself off.

 _Scared,_ Tony finishes in his head. He sees enough of himself in Peter to see that the word is a rock in his throat, loathe to being pushed out.

“Okay, Peter Parker, you need to breathe,” Tony says, bracing Peter’s upper arms and locking the kid’s gaze down with his own, like pulling a hurdling star into orbit. “Everything is gonna be fine. You’re here now, I’m here now, and whatever has happened or is happening, we will figure it out. Okay?”

Peter takes a deeper breath and nods. Swallows. Takes another deep breath.

Tony lets his arms go. “When you’re ready, just start from the beginning.”

The kid looks around the room. “I don’t know what the beginning is,” he says tightly. Then his eyes find Tony’s again- “Mr. Stark, have you seen the news today? About Spider-Man?”

Tony feels a semblance of relief fill in his chest- he _had_ seen the news, if by the news Peter means the big fuss about a robber in Spider-themed clothes. He’s been subscribed to news alerts relating to Spider-Man since the kid’s onesie days. But this...this isn't cause for alarm.

“Pete,” he says, trying to give a reassuring smile, “You have to know that that drama will blow over, right? Remember your ATM robbers in their Avengers masks? You’re a public figure now, so cosplayers are gonna happen, even criminal ones. Heck, I remember the first time it hit the news that someone dressed as Tony Stark- not even Iron Man, the guy drew on a marker goatee and everything-”

“It wasn’t someone _dressed_ as me!” Peter interrupts in a burst, clearly more agitated than comforted, and looking about ready to pull his hair out as he explains, “It _was_ me, Mr. Stark! I did those things! At least-” he winces and grabs his forehead- “I think I did…”

Tony blinks.

“Uh…” he says, unsure.

He’s about to ask whether Peter’s been sleeping and eating enough, if he’s been out in the sun too much today, if his ridiculously self-sacrificing hero complex has somehow otherwise been stoked into overdrive to the point of malfunction-

But the kid’s looking him in the eyes and Tony can tell this is serious. He can tell it in how hard it is for him to come out and say it.

Not for one second does he actually believe Peter robbed a store (Peter would sooner cut his own hands off than take something from another person, using his powers or otherwise). From looking at him though, he does believe that _Peter_ believes he did.

And whatever force is behind the kid losing faith in himself, Tony is already itching to crush it.

“Explain,” he says, confidence in his voice, confidence in Peter.

Peter starts to try but stumbles over his words a bit, “I-I was- I mean, do you remember- the phone call, the phone call I made last week, right? About the guy at my school?”

Tony casts his mind back to the conversation in question and nods, frowning. “Yeah…Yeah, I meant to ask you how that went.”

Gulping, Peter says, “I thought I could handle it on my own…” He stops himself, mouth shaking.

The man feels his heart clench for the kid who is _his_ kid.

“Underoos—” he says.

 

And stops.

 

Because with that word... something happens to Peter.

  
The syllables are hardly out of Tony’s mouth when it happens, and he’s looking right at Peter so he sees it clearly, one thing at a time:

 

Peter goes rigid, face looking stunned. Then it relaxes from near-tears into a blank mask. His stress-blown pupils constrict to pinpoints, focused on nothing.

His eyes, the most expressive things Tony’s ever seen, empty of feeling.

And then he doesn’t move.

 

Tony doesn’t do anything but wait for a handful of seconds, expecting him to snap out of it, maybe shake his head and say he just thought of something.

(But there’s something eerie about this that tells him otherwise.)

“...Kid?” Tony asks.

Like Peter’s turned to stone… no reaction.

Tony waves a hand in his face, and obnoxious as the action is, the kid only blinks reflexively.

“Peter, what-”

Then Peter is standing, posture straight as a puppet with the string pulled taut.

And he turns.

And he starts walking down the hall.

Tony startles and steps after him. “Peter? What are you up to now, kiddo? Everything alright?”

Peter doesn’t respond, but he’s heading for the elevator that goes to Tony’s lab like a man on a mission, and when Tony grabs for his wrist, he makes the first non-robotic movement since…whatever this is.

He yanks away, turns, and fires a web from the wrist of the suit he still has on. Before Tony can blink, the hand he touched Peter with is yanked back and adhered with a glob of net to the wall behind himself. Tony looks down at the bond in surprise, surprise and bewilderment that rings his whole body over.

He looks back up at Peter.

 

(Peter?)

 

The person in front of him glances over Tony, still so blank-faced.

And the person standing there is not Peter Parker.

And the person standing there who is not Peter Parker turns and enters the elevator and disappears down into the workshop where Tony Stark’s most valuable projects are located.

 

…

…

…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> never enoughhhhhhh  
> never never  
> ...  
> :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [illusions and cheap tricks (aka the title of quentin beck's autobiography)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19464226) by [paperback92](https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperback92/pseuds/paperback92)




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